Silent
by Fizz the Great
Summary: What is it like to be (silent)? Sherlock is heavily injured in a chase causing his vocal cords to fail to abduct. How will Sherlock live without the ability to talk? The world is silent without Sherlock Holmes. It feels colder than before. Mute. FANART NOT BY ME. ALL CREDITS GO TO THE PERSON WHO DREW IT.
1. Chapter 1

There was running. Chasing the figure through dark alleys, running across tiled roofs and fields. Then it ended at the narrow walkway to the dumpster, where he jumped on him. They fell on the ground, wrestling as each one of them tried to gain the upper hand. Sherlock was winning until the other man pulled out a knife. He barely realized what happened until the man raised his knife, and he felt sudden pain at his throat.

He felt something wet and sticky on his hands and when he looked down, they were all dripping crimson. The world began tip back and the lights around him started to dim. He felt his head bang against the wet stone floor and he heard John and Lestrade's voices calling at him, shouting at him about something, but he couldn't hear that well because their voices were growing fainter and fainter. And so he just laid on the ground, hands still red with blood, waiting, as the world around him started to turn black.

—

The first thing he noticed was the blackness. Continued blackness, swirling motions, waves. More waves, blackness, waves, John. John, John, John, John, John, chasing, falling, cold, wet, ground, knife, pain. Pain, pain, pain, John, pain, John, pain.

beep*

John.

beep*

Pain, John,

beep*

John.

beep*

John where are you,

beep*

Fingers. Still intact.

beep*

John,

beep*

John can't you hear me,

beep*

Sherlock moved his fingers. Just a tiny bit. It didn't hurt. His throat hurts though. It hurts a lot like it's on fire. He tried to swallow. Instead, he manage to choke. On his own saliva. Oh the irony in this.

John seemed be next to him because in a few seconds a warm hand rested on his own. He blinked his eyes a bit and attempted to look at John. Instead, all he saw was a blurry white mess. The brightness hurt his eyes so he snapped his eyes shut again.

"John," he said but all he heard was silence. Frustrated, he tried again. "John," he repeated but still, nothing came out. A wave of panic washed over him as he realized he can no longer make a sound. Was it because something was blocking his speech? Oxygen mask? John must have sensed his alarm since the heart monitor started to beep rapidly.

John only stroked his hand reassuringly, shushing him as he tried to kick the blankets off. He opened his mouth and tried again but nothing came out. It was as if something was blocking his throat, stopping the words from coming, even though he knew them clearly in his mind. His throat worked furiously, trying to get the words out but he just can't. They were stuck.

Sherlock twisted to his right then to his left, shifting in discomfort. He started to kick again, pulling his hand away from John.

"Sherlock dammit if you don't stop moving I'll have to call the nurse to put restraints on you," he said.

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but nothing came out. Just silence. He lifted a hand to touch his throat, to see what's wrong, but John caught his hand and held it tight.

"John!" he mouthed, legs kicking and hands balled into fists as he tried to say something, anything. Couldn't he see that he was struggling?

John, John, John, John, John.

Strong hands held him down, preventing him from any movement. Something stiff was at his throat, hindering him to turn his head. He opened his eyes and saw a fuzzy image of his flatmate. "John," he mouthed. John nodded to show that he saw him. He gripped his hand even tighter and as his vision became clearer Sherlock saw hard lines of worry on John's face.

Why isn't John replying, what's wrong with him, what's wrong with his throat, why can't he speak?

I hate not knowing please someone help me, he thought, still clutching John's hand.

John, John, John, please tell me what's going on please…

All he could do was stare at John. John didn't smile. He didn't laugh. Instead, he almost seemed…sad, to see him like this.

John, he cried one more time but he knew he couldn't hear him. Because something was wrong with him, something very great, that might disable him, forever. He was so tired and the struggling really sapped all his energy. He was surprised John didn't call the doctors to restrain him. But John looked sad. He wasn't sure what to do so he tried getting John's attention again, to make him say something.

John, please help me, he said silently, but there was no reply. Only the sound of the heart monitor beside him beeped, as silence greeted him and took him back to sleep.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. Just to let you know, updates will be on every Wednesday and Saturday. Though some updates will be a bit late! You are now warned… :)**


	2. Chapter 2

The second time he woke up, the heart monitor was still beeping beside him. The oxygen mask was still on him and he still felt the nagging discomfort as if something was logged in his throat, blocking his speech. Sherlock knitted his eyebrows together in discomfort as a wave of nausea washed over him. His throat still felt raw and itchy but he could move his head now so he tilted his head to the side. John was still there, unshaven, hand propping his head up as he dozed.

Sherlock decided to not wake him. Instead, he lifted a hand to touch his throat. There was some sort of thick plastic material across it and when he looked down, he realized there were large tubes sticking out of his chest.

Oh, I have been intubated, he thought, fiddling with the plastic tubes. He cast a glance at John but he was still sleeping.

Why didn't they stick it down my throat, he thought.

Then he remembered the harsh pain when he tried to swallow. Something was wrong with his throat. How long has he been here? Two days? Three? No, must have taken them a while to remove the cast around his neck. Around a week at least. Maybe even two.

Panic started to overwhelm him but he fought it down.

John I'm so tired, he thought, John, please help me, I'm so tired.

He exhaled, hoping for a sigh of sound, but still, nothing came out. He watched morphine drip slowly down from beside him.

Drip, drip, drip, drip, the drug continued.

In minutes, he was lured back to sleep by it's rhythmic sound.

—

This was the third time he woke up. The lights were still on above him, but the tubes were no longer in him. That should mean he's allowed to eat on his own by now. The IV line was still attached to his hand and the heart monitor was still hooked up to his chest but his throat hurt a lot less now. It was still sore but the pain was gone. Only a pounding throb remained, logged in his throat. A drink of water should do.

He twisted so that he could see John. John sat there looking at him. At least John was awake.

He looked at the sink. John raised an eyebrow. He nodded at the sink, trying to tell him that he needed water.

"You want some water?" John asked.

He nodded.

"Ok, I'll go get you some," John stood up and hobbled over to the sink.

Sherlock looked back down at the little white pads attached to his chest, counting each beat of heart. He started to peel one off.

"Sherlock…" John warned.

Sherlock let his hand fall back to the bed. John held out the paper cup and he gladly took it. He drained the cup in one sitting, but he drank too fast so he started choking on the water, coughing all over the white sheets.

John patted his back reassuringly, "The doctor said to not eat solids. Don't try drinking too much of something, your throat is still finding it difficult to swallow," he explained.

Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand then gave the paper cup back to John. He then rested his head on the pillow and sighed. No, not sighed, he only exhaled. No sound came out, as usual. He tried asking John what happened.

"H…o…w…" he tapped.

John frowned, "You… don't remember what happened?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

John let out a sigh then leaned forward, "You were chasing one of Moran's men down the alley, remember? He had a knife and you two kind of struggled a bit. And then he stab your throat. It's a miracle you survived." He said. "Well, the knife was pretty short, only about five centimeters or so,"

John made some kind of weird shrug and frown. "But, it still did some damage though,"

Oh sure it did, Sherlock thought, looking up at the ceiling feeling vexed.

So… he got stabbed. In the throat. Oh wow. The chances of getting stabbed in the throat without dying is probably a one out of 10. Or two out of 10, depending on the health and where the wound was.

The wound.

He let his hand wander absently to his throat. A thick gauze was stuck there, probably half a centimeter.

He shifted a bit so that his whole body was turned to John. "Recover?" he tapped.

John took a deep breath then said the words that Sherlock hated.

"I don't know," he said softly, shaking his head. "I don't know. I'm sorry Sherlock. Maybe you will heal. Maybe never," he shrugged.

For an instance he thought John was going to cry. But he didn't. John just sat there, block straight as if he was back training in the military again.

"Doctor says you will be able to leave in around three days later," he said after a while. He shifted uneasily in the chair. "So…how are you feeling?"

Before he could start tapping, John stopped him. "Don't tell me you're fine," he said, "because I know you're not."

Sherlock shot him an annoyed look. "Achy," he tapped. He pointed to his throat.

John sighed. "I know Sherlock," he said, "I know."

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. Just to let you know, this type of muteness is called Aphonia, which disables the person to make any sound, screaming, groaning, crying, etc. It happens when vocal folds fails to adduct (come together to make a sound) but the vocal folds will adduct when the person coughs.**

 **I hate bees.**

 ***hides**

 **Please don't kick me!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock was let out three days later. He was silent during the entire ride back. Of course, what else can he say? Not a single word will be uttered from his mouth, ever again.

Lestrade visited a few days earlier when Sherlock had just came out of surgery to remove the tubes from his chest. He was heavily sedated so there weren't much words. Lestrade only shook his head, watching the sleeping detective's chest rise up and down.

"You sure he's okay?" He asked John.

"Well, his first reaction wasn't quite well," he stated.

Lestrade sighed. "Just…take care of him," he said to John. And then he left.

Molly visited right after Lestrade. "Is he ever going to heal?" she asked him. John only shook his head. He wasn't sure.

Molly kind of just stared straight ahead at Sherlock. And then her lips began trembling. She burst through the doors and left without another word. And John was left there, in silence alone with Sherlock.

Mycroft, well, Mycroft acted like Mycroft. Cool, calm, exactly the way he acted when Sherlock got shot. He said he's going to talk to him privately when he's fully healed. Of course, that's Mycroft.

Oh, and not before mentioning that he implanted a tracker behind Sherlock's ear just in case he got lost or captured.

Mrs. Hudson was informed on the day Sherlock was let out of the hospital. She was disappointed. Sad. Crestfallen.

"Poor dear," she kept muttering, "oh my, oh, that poor poor thing…" John meet with her before Sherlock was let out. And they sat there, and spent some quality time together, discussing what to do when Sherlock's (silent).

Sherlock, without his snotty remarks, sarcastic statements, his ability to deduce. He can be as smart as Einstein and Hawking combined but without his voice nobody will know what he wants to say. Nobody. And Sherlock, being Sherlock, will refuse any type of electronic voice to aid him. He has already refused the suggestions made by his doctors.

2…2…1…b…, he would tap to John every time he wakes up. The doctors said Sherlock might need to go see the therapist some time. Losing his voice all of the sudden like that needs adjusting. But John didn't tell him. Instead, John decided to go see the therapist by himself. To go ask the doctor how he could help Sherlock. How to make him adjust to this silent life.

"Don't let him fall into depression," the doctor had said.

Ha. Depression. Since when was Sherlock depressed. Probably the frustration of not solving a case or anger of not catching the culprit in time. But depression to the case of suicide? Sherlock wouldn't do that. He's too intelligent to just hand his life over like that.

Right?

"Spend more time with him," the doctor had also told him. Of course. What can be more obvious than that?

But… what about his own family? What about Mary, what about his daughter? He can't just leave his life like that.

And of course John choose to kept it away from him. Sherlock will never heal. It's not curable. His vocal cords are damaged, and there's nothing to do about it. John hated being useless.

—

It still felt weird.

Not being able to talk.

Every time when he opens his mouth ready to yell something at John, nothing comes out. Only the deafening silence. It's driving him crazy. But he doesn't go crazy. There's nothing really wrong. He can still continue with his life. He can still solve crimes.

Can he?

Without the ability to speak, how can he deduce? How can he let out the usual spur of words, amazing all those around him?

Possible or not possible chance of healing, he still has to find a way to live even without his voice. And so he began to type.

We have to find a way to communicate -SH

He waited from John to reply. Two minutes passed until a message came in.

Sherlock it's six in the morning and how are you planning to find a way? -JW

Sherlock rolled his eyes although he knew John couldn't see.

Do you know sign-language? -SH

A bit, not a lot though. -JW

Go learn. -SH

He sighed then tossed his phone on the sofa. That probably ended their only conversation of the day.

—

John woke up to the beeping of his alarm. He turned to his side to see the digital screen showing 8:30. Well, two hours. Sherlock let him sleep two hours before making some sort of racket. It was when he reached the bathroom door when he realized, he didn't wake because of Sherlock, but of the alarm clock.

Frantic, he turned around to look for Sherlock. He was nowhere to be seen.

"Sherlock?" he called. No answer. His heart dropped and he took a few breaths to calm himself down. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had ran off but John hoped it wouldn't be the last.

"Sherlock?" he called again. Still no answer.

"Mrs. Hudson!" he yelled. In seconds, there were high heels clumping up the wooden stairs and soon, the door creaked open.

"For the second time John Watson I am not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson huffed as she poked her head out of the door.

"Sherlock, have you seen him?" John asked.

Mrs. Hudson's expression changed from exasperation to puzzlement. "Well, he left a couple of hours ago, didn't explain himself, well, he couldn't could he?" Mrs. Hudson let out a small chuckle to lighten things up. It quickly died away.

John sighed then fished his phone out of his pocket. "I'll go text him to see where he is," he said with a thin smile. Mrs. Hudson nodded tightly then turned around to leave.

"Call me when you need me," she said.

John looked up from his phone and smiled. "Course' I will," he replied.

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly then left. John went back to texting his friend.

Sherlock where are you? He typed. The response was quick.

Out. -SH

John sighed. Sherlock was still Sherlock even without his voice.

I know you're out. But where? -JW

Shopping. We're out of milk. -SH

Shopping? You never go out to shop. -JW

But there's nothing to do. -SH

Can't you do an experiment? -JW

The next response surprised him.

Too quiet. -SH

Too quiet. Another effect of being mute. "Silence can drive him crazy," the doctor told him. "give him some music to hear. Tell him to play an instrument, does he play an instrument?"

"Yes, a violin," John replied. The doctor sat back and nodded.

"Let him play the violin," he said, "he needs the music to fill in the silence."

A soft ding interrupted him from his thoughts.

Oh, and if you're wondering why I'm taking so long it's because it took forever for me to find where the milk was. -SH

John smiled.

Ok just be back asap. -JW

On the way. -SH

John let his shoulders fall and he sank into the couch, letting his phone rest in his hands. He could make it. He could make it with Sherlock. And he would never leave him behind.

Never.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. Thanks for the reviews and favorites, your reviews make my day!**

 **Sorry if some of the words are a bit confusing, I'm not from Britain so please correct if I'm wrong.**

 **Who should be the next James Bond? TAKING A POLL!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, Izzy here. I'm now back in China again… :(. I might be a bit busy now that my summer time's over so updates might be a bit late. Maybe I might change the updates to every Wednesday. OH, and thanks for all those reviews and favorites!**

Sherlock came back half an hour later, carrying three plastic bags all filled with something John knew wasn't milk.

"Where's the milk?" He asked.

Sherlock lifted up his other hand revealing a gallon of milk.

Oh, okay. "So…what's in the other bags?" He asked.

A wicked grin appeared on Sherlock's face. John mentally slapped himself in the face. Probably baking soda, explosives, magnesium… If he's lucky he might even find frozen fingers.

"Whatever, forget I asked," he muttered.

Sherlock strolled to the kitchen counter and dropped his plastic bags and milk. Then, he walked to his sofa chair in two strides and plopped down in it.

Tired? He thought to himself. Maybe he wants some tea.

"Tea?" John prompted.

Sherlock nodded.

"Black with three sugars?"

Another nod.

John shuffled to the kitchen to get the tea ready. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock bringing his knees up in a defensive motion. He watched as Sherlock gradually lowered his forehead on his knees. He hugged his legs even closer to his body, as if he was trying to disappear.

"Uh…Sherlock you okay?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Um…okay then," he went back to boiling the water. Sherlock still crouched there hugging his legs.

Soon, John had a steaming cup of tea in each of his hands as he made his way back into the living room. He sat the cup on the table next to Sherlock then settled in his own seat.

Sherlock looked up and stared at the steaming cup. John prodded him on with his eyes. Sherlock took the cup of tea. Then he went back to crouching, warm cup held in his pale hands.

None of them made a sound for a long time.

Just pure… silence.

Sherlock seemed unable stand the silence because soon, he pulled out his phone and began furiously typing. John watched him with inquisitiveness.

In seconds, his phone dinged. He drew out his phone and looked at the screen.

You should go home. You have a family, I'm fine alone. -SH

John looked up hoping his face was showing the most confused and mystified expression. "But-can you, the doctor said…" he trailed off at Sherlock's trademark eye roll. He began typing again.

John's phone dinged once more.

I'm 39 years old and you have a family to take care of. Go to your family. There's nothing for you to do here. I'll be fine. -SH

"You sure?" He asked staring at Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock rolled his trademark eye roll again and nodded.

John adjusted his position then rubbed his face with his hands.

Should he do it? The doctor said it's best for Sherlock to have as much company as he can but Sherlock is…well, Sherlock. He managed two years on his own and John was pretty sure he can handle a few hours by himself. Besides, Mycroft's meeting him today and he can always come tomorrow to check on him. And Mrs. Hudson's always downstairs in case something happens and Mycroft always have security cameras all around the flat.

John still went out on cases with him after he got married but… things were getting packed up, especially when Mary's pregnant. And after Moran's comeback to avenge Moriarty's death, the odds weren't always in their favor.

Moran's still out there and Sherlock's security isn't probably the best however, it isn't the worst. His brother's still the British government. Perhaps he should go back home. Sherlock has enough people looking after him so he should be fine. Plus Mary needs help once his baby's born. Help with cooking, cleaning, _and_ he also needs to spend more time with his family.

Sherlock will be fine. He is 39 years old and he can look after himself. All he's lacking is just his voice. But other than that Sherlock will be fine.

Sherlock. Will. Be. Fine.

He will be fine.

Fine.

So John decided to leave. To go home. But not before checking on his flatemate's food supply, health, whether he's taking his proper medications and so on. Sherlock seemed like he was dying in the end but John didn't care. He doesn't want anything to happen to Sherlock. Not after he already lost his voice. He stayed till it was around five then he made for the door, ready to join his family for dinner.

"Oh, and Sherlock," he yelled from the stairs. "Mycroft's visiting, not sure when, but he's going to visit you sometime today."

He paused.

"Be good!" He added, "and don't start a battle with him I still want the flat intact when I come back tomorrow,"

He heard books being thrown on the floor above. Suddenly, out of nowhere, a book flew from second floor and fell down onto the staircase landing on the floor with a large 'thump'. John clomped up the stairs to examine it.

"British Sign Language Concise Dictionary," he read aloud. "Gee, thanks Sherlock,"

His phone dinged. "What now…" he muttered under his breath as he searched for his phone.

Read and learn sign language. Can't type forever. -SH

"Okay, fine!" He yelled. He climbed back down the stairs again. "Take care of yourself!" He didn't wait for Sherlock's reply.

In the end, John asked Mrs. Hudson to look after him, and always check where he's going if he's going outside. Mrs. Hudson happily obliged.

"Oh, and call me if anything happens," he said.

"Of course dear," she replied.

And so John left.

 **GUEST R: I have taken your idea into consideration! I don't want some random character not in Sherlock to be his voice and I think it's gonna be quite cool if Anderson becomes Sherlock's translator. But I can always change it! WILL BE IN NEXT CHAPTER.**

 **I'm not sure with lip reading because it's quite hard and rare, (takes 1-2 years to** **master it** **) so only Mycroft can understand him fully.**


	5. Chapter 5

**I nearly forgot to update! You people, someone needs to remind me. Anyway here you go, Chapter 5.**

Sherlock decided to go take a shower. Not because he needed to, but because Mycroft was coming and at least he can delay the 'talk' whatsoever. Also the fact of the silence, that he did not want to address. He can spend days without anyone.

By the time he got out of the shower fully dressed, hair still dripping water, Mycroft was already there, standing, in the middle of the living room, with his black umbrella propped to his side.

"Sherlock," he said, looking up at him.

He only replied with a silent snarl. Mycroft only sighed, as if disappointed.

"So…how is silent life suiting you then?"

Sherlock turned to face the window. He stuck up his middle finger. He heard Mycroft sigh again. How many sighs is Mycroft going to sigh today?

"Sherlock…" he began. He turned to face him. Then he pointed his finger at the door.

" _Out_ ," he mouthed.

"But-"

 _"Get out,"_

"Don't you need any help? I know you're struggling to communicate with John and the others. Should I hire someone to be your interpreter? Or a machine to aid you would also be fine…yet the voice will be a bit flat-"

Mycroft was suddenly interrupted by a large crash. He looked down to see that Sherlock had thrown a cup across the room, shattering glass all over the floor.

"I…Sherlock?" Mycroft looked up to see Sherlock's ever so fuming face. He was stunned with Sherlock's anger. He usually doesn't…act like that.

"Sherlock, is something wrong?" He asked, sounding almost innocent to Sherlock's ears.

" _Something wrong? Yeah right, something's definitely wrong isn't it?"_ Sherlock said with a cool smile.

"Sherlock, look, I know you're adjusting to all this but, I can help, okay?"

 _"No,"_

Mycroft sighed for the third time. "For God's sake get a grip of yourself!" He said, voice rising slightly louder than usual. "You can't close yourself off like that forever. Moran and his men are still out there and they would do anything to get ahold of you. You have to-" He was suddenly cut off as Sherlock pushed him straight onto the wall, putting him into an armlock.

"Boys, is everything alright up there?" Mrs. Hudson's voice floated up the stairs.

"Yes, everything's fine!" Mycroft called. He tried getting his arm loose out of Sherlock's grip. "Sherlock," he murmured.

Sherlock loosened his arm a bit so that he can turn his head a few degrees to see Sherlock's mouth.

 _"I don't need help,"_ Sherlock said, clearly pronouncing every single word silently. He pointed to the door again. _"Get. Out."_

Mycroft looked dejected but Sherlock didn't care.

 _"Get. Out."_ He snarled again. He let go of Mycroft.

Mycroft began to make for the door. His placid hand lingered on the handle for a moment before turning back to Sherlock.

"Sherlock…" he started, "I can help you. I'm not here to harm you okay? Just, if you need any help, text me, I'll always be on my phone if you need me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, _"Why would I ever need_ ** _your_** _help?"_

Mycroft shrugged. "Remember, I can provide a translator for you anytime," he said. And then he turned and left.

—

The next day John still visited. But it was slightly shorter then yesterday's. Only a quick check, seeing if he's doing fine. Sherlock didn't mind. John said Mary's been doing okay. But she's in the hospital right now so visits might be a bit shorter.

"It's okay," he would say. John learned a bit of sign-language over night but it was barely. In the end, he ended up still texting John and hoping that John could read his lips.

Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he does need a translator, computer or not. He hated the fact of getting help while he was so useless. Lestrade hadn't called him for any case yet. But he checked in on him today. Said he should give a couple of days, fine a way to communicate.

"Anderson learned sign-language when he was in Uni," Lestrade declared after a long period of silence. John had long left to see his wife.

Sherlock scoffed. Anderson? Anybody but Anderson, and why would he even want to help him? He might even be glad that he lost his voice. No more disruptions, no more snide talks.

"I'll give you some time to decide," he said. "you can text, but it's a bit slow. And it's just a suggestion."

Lestrade nodded warmly at him. "Text me when you're ready," he said, turning to leave.

And Sherlock was alone again.

—

It has been four days since Sherlock was let out of the hospital. Four days of utter silence in his flat.

The silence was driving him crazy. No, not crazy. It was just annoying. Plain annoying. He wanted to call Mrs. Hudson but he wasn't sure why. Maybe have someone to talk to? But he couldn't talk. So why disturb her?

In fact, why bother everyone when there's literally nothing to do even with them here? He doesn't need anyone. He's fine alone. He doesn't need help. He doesn't even need a therapist though he knows that John is help seeing one every week.

Then why is he wanting attention?

Maybe it was the silence. He still did experiments. But slowly everyday, he began to realize that he was spending more and more time playing his violin. Lestrade didn't call him to solve crimes. Yet. He said that he needs a bit more time to adjust. Probably a week or two.

And that made Sherlock feel useless. Angry. Frustrated. He couldn't talk, so who needs him to solve crimes? Who needs a mute?

And help from Anderson? When did he needs help like _that_?

John still checked on him, everyday after work. And he would stay with him for an hour or two, talking to him, making sure he's eating and sleeping properly. But in the end, he always has to leave. Sherlock always reminds him to when it gets past time. His family needs him. Sherlock doesn't. But Sherlock wants him. He doesn't need him but… the silence. Without John.

Mrs. Hudson yesterday to Cardiff. Family reunion she explained to him.

"Please don't run off into some monkey business," she told him while giving him a hug. Sherlock only nodded.

And after Mrs. Hudson left, the entire apartment felt so cold. No more sounds of Mrs. Hudson's humming and singing, dishwashing, cleaning.

All that was left was the silence that replaced it. John still visited. But visits became shorter as days passed when John's baby was born.

That's when he started calling Molly. This was exactly seven days since he was let out of the hospital.

"Sherlock?" She said. "Sherlock, is anything wrong?"

No. -SH

"Um, okay." A little laugh. "Then…why are you calling me? Like, it's fine to call me, you can call me whenever you want but, you know, it's just, I, well, I want to know if you're okay, sorry I'm not making any sense." She stuttered.

Yes, why is he calling her? Perhaps he's bored or perhaps he just needs someone to talk to him.

Bored. -SH

"Um, okay, so…"

Just talk to me. -SH

"Uh, okay, like what?"

Anything, I don't care. Just talk to me. -SH

"Um…okay," she said. "Well, so today I had to do autopsy on another victim that was killed of a type of virus…"

And that's how the nights started. Sherlock would call Molly every night and every night he would just sit there and hear her voice, telling him how her day went, what happened, what did not happen that was expected to happen... Every single day from that on. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe it's just there to fill the silence.

Molly would tell Sherlock about everything that happened to her on that day.

And Sherlock listened.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. Is this going to be a slight Sherlolly story? Ideas? It's going to be osm.**

 **Watch Third Star, it's a beautiful movie that BC has done a fantastic job on. MUST WATCH.**


	6. Chapter 6

**WATCH THIRD STAR.**

A case came around three days after the phone calls. Seven days since the hospital, three weeks since he became mute. Exactly a week of no cases. This case better had to be a good one.

Sherlock barely had to even move to solve the case. It was simple. Her husband was cheating on her causing her to, kill the family dog, and subsequently persuade his boss to fire him from his job. Sherlock didn't need Anderson's help in any kind of way. Simple texting and emailing was fine. Of course, these are only easy cases.

Another week passed and three more cases were solved. All three didn't require the help of Anderson. Why? Because Sherlock _doesn't_ need Anderson's help. He's fine alone. Alone is what protects him. But he couldn't vindicate the fact that the cases _were_ easy. Effortless. And _boring_. Lestrade just wanted to keep him busy. Not left out. But the truth is… nobody needs a mute to solve cases.

The fact of Sherlock being an aphonia was beginning to die down. Scotland Yard was especially taciturn about it. Everything was going quite adequately. John's baby's due in around two to four days. Mrs. Hudson's coming back from Cardiff tomorrow. Mycroft left London today for some governmental business. That's when Sherlock got a call from Lestrade. Triple murder, he declared, you should probably come.

It was 11 pm that time.

Three dead, all killed in the same room yet with completely different backgrounds. Every man told a different story, thus despite all that, they were killed in the same way. Blood loss. Each body had something craved on his chest. However what was interesting wasn't how the killer decided to spill blood all over the bodies creating a halo, or the words on the victims chests. It was the parenthesis, encircling the words. As if spoken in… silence.

(Miss me ?)

It's undeniable who did it. Terrorists like Moran are terminal. The questions is… where?

He knelt down to examine the blood circling victim. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a print of a shoe. He move forward in inquisitiveness .

"Found something?" Lestrade asked. He saw the footprint that Sherlock was examining. "It's obvious who did it, right?"

Sherlock nodded. _"Yes, but we need to find out where they are."_

He took out a cotton swab to collect the blood then placed it in a clear cylinder container.

 _"_ _The murdered is obviously male, knocked out all three victims then craved words on them, died of blood loss. I'll have to bring this to Barts to analyze. Perhaps I can find out where the Moran is currently staying like the Hansel and Gretel with the factory and chocolate."_ Sherlock quickly said, moving up to go.

Lestrade stared at him as if he was speaking another language. Then it hit him.

Oh, I can't speak, Sherlock thought as vexation filled him once again. Typing will be too slow, which means…

He gazed at Anderson absentmindedly then raised an eyebrow. Lestrade seemed to get his point.

"Anderson!" Lestrade called. An irate voice floated back to them.

"WHAT!" He yelled across the room, snooty face stuck up in the air. "Can't you see I'm working?"

"I need you to translate something for me!" Lestrade shouted. "Get your butt over here!"

Sherlock heard a groan as loud as a rusty train as Anderson shuffled across the room, gloved hands still slightly bloodied from the bodies.

"What," he bluntly repeated again.

Sherlock began moving his hands at a rapid speed, fingers flying through the air, spelling out a full sentence.

 _"_ _You are rather repetitive today, A-N-D-E-R-S-O-N,"_ Sherlock's hands said, motioning each letter of his name.

Anderson sneered. "Wai-what did he say?" Lestrade asked.

"That I am repetitive," he scoffed. "which I am not."

Lestrade smiled. "Well, he's back to himself, hmm?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He then made a motion with fingers walking then a fist, hitting his palm repeatedly. Then he pointed a finger above and made a whirling motion, then an open palm, fist, crossed fingers, and lastly, a snapping motion in a fist.

"He says he needs to go to Barts, something about last case and analyzing the blood to find out where…"

Sherlock made five more hand motions.

"…Moran is," Anderson concluded.

"How about the killer, what do you know about him so far?" Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock burst into another flurry of hand motions.

"Uh… man, well fit, experienced killer, _how do you even know that?_ tall enough to knock victims unconscious, trademark kill of killing victims with blood loss, _a bit like you_ , one of Moran's best man, henchman perhaps, shoe size is large, the man is big, tall, around one point…eight seven? _I hope you're done by now_ , and, he tells you to search on the information that you have so far on Moran's men, the man should be a bit bulky judging by the cuts on the body, _what?_ and… now he needs to go to Barts goodbye," Anderson said as Sherlock turned and left in a flourish, coattail swishing behind him.

"Molly's are Barts just to let you know!" Lestrade called after him. Sherlock made no indication to reply.

Anderson and Lestrade stood side by side at the scene, watching Sherlock disappear into the darkness.

"Well, that's that," Anderson said with a sniff. He turned and left without another word. So Lestrade was left standing there, staring into the darkness. The case is closed, one of Moran's men. They'll have to pinpoint the location. A soft ding woke Lestrade from his thoughts as he pulled out his phone.

Will send you the results. -SH

Lestrade grinned. Sherlock will be fine.

 _—_

Sherlock walked down the dark passage, dim street lights eliminating his only path forward. The ground was still wet from the rain yesterday, reflecting off strands of light here and there. He stuffed his hands in his pockets, fingering the plastic tube containing the blood. He felt a nagging sensation in his mind, like he was missing something, something important that almost has nothing to do with the three murders. Something about… forget about it, pinpoint Moran's location first. Sherlock turned and made a left down the corridor.

Suddenly, he felt a tiny pinprick at his neck. Perturbation lit up inside him like fire and his mind swam, dread filling every single cell in his body. But before he can turn around to find his culprit, the world began to tilt around him and his knees startled to buckle. A sense of deja vu washed over him as he spun in a circle, unable to stand straight.

No, he thought wordlessly as the ground rushed up towards him. Before long, he let his body give in as he collapsed into the arms of a stranger.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. Yayaayyayaya first cliffhanger! I learned some sign language in fifth grade or something like that so yeah…**

 **Updates now every Wednesday! Ciao :)**


	7. Chapter 7

Sore neck.

Sore body.

Everywhere felt agonizing.

Pounding head.

Pain.

Blinding pain.

His coat was gone, so was his phone and scarf. His neck ached from sleeping in a position for so long and the ground shook, from something… He couldn't really figure anything out right now, everything felt so cold and feverish. Sherlock let his hand wander up his neck and lightly grazed the skin. Dried blood, traveling up until… a wound.

A small gash, not large enough in the need for stitches, probably. In the position he is now, there's really no way to tell. He let out a silent groan then twisted around to get in a more comfortable position. Just that small movement caused spikes of fire to run up his body, crushing every cell in his body. Sherlock bit back another yell of pain as he was finally facing the ceiling. His hand was still perched lightly on his open wound, dried pieces of blood flaking off like paint as he brushed them away.

A sudden streak of light entered his vision. He tried to open them but they seemed to be nailed shut. Scrunching up his face again, he attempted to pivot around to get up. Using his body's momentum, he rolled to his side then planted his hands on either side of his body, starting to get up. But before he can get to his knees, a hard boot was slammed into his head and he was pushed back down again. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, hoping this was all a dream but it felt far too real. The rough rubber was pressed against his face as he struggled to get back up again.

"Your brother, he's a smart one ay?" A heavy accent drifted towards him. "Stuck a tracker in you, difficult one. Lucky we ran you through the metal detector. Or else, humph," the man didn't finish his sentence. Instead, he burst into laughter.

"Those polices, don't know what hit em," he laughed. Another voice joined him.

"Hey you," the leather boot nudged him in the head, multiplying his headache by tens. "you still there? Come on, say something eh? Say something,"

The group of men laughed. "Ha! Mute. Lucky Robinson stabbed him in the throat. Or else he's gonna start sprouting prophecies!" The man who was still nudging Sherlock exclaimed.

Another burst of laughter.

"Good one Whitney!" A man called. There were a few claps on the back and words of congratulation.

The man who stabbed him was here too. Sherlock felt a sudden rush of anger, and hopelessness and he was trapped there, face was still pressed between the boot and the metal floor, hands splayed out at his sides.

Cold ground, moving, probably on a moving van of some type. Around four people in the van so far, one driver. Whitney's the one who kicked him, Robinson's likely sitting in the front seat. The other two sitting behind, one to his right, one to his left.

Tracker…

Mycroft must have implanted a tracker during his surgery. Suddenly, he realized something. The thing that he felt like he was missing. It hit him like a brick in the head. Sherlock Holmes, walked into a trap, caged like an animal. The three murder case wasn't actually a case, case. It was just to lure him out. What a perfect timing. How was he so blind?

Mycroft left that morning to Korea, which was halfway across the world. Mrs. Hudson was still in Cardiff, and John was staying with his wife in the hospital. The killer didn't kill the victims with blood loss because he liked it. It was because it was the only way to find out where Moran was. The footprint was left there on purpose, coaxing him out of the crime scene, to go to Barts.

Lestrade will think he's in the morgue, analyzing the blood, and Molly would think he's still at the scene, investigating. No one will know, that he is already out of central London. The warnings were right there, flashing in his face. And yet he chose to ignore it.

Oh, stupid, stupid, stupid.

Another kick.

"Hey, down there, whatcha thinkin'?" The man said, cupping his hands around his mouth as if he was yelling. "Comeon, whatcha thinkin'?"

Sherlock didn't make any signs that he heard him. Whitney chuckled. "Comeon boy," he said, "speak."

Still no answer.

"Speak!" The man kicked him straight in the abdomen.

Sherlock clenched his teeth as he brought his knees up in attempt to block the attacks. The man kept on kicking him until he grew tried.

"Well, that's that," he said finally, out of breath. He let out a low chuckle. "No one needs you, you know. _Mute._ " He sneered at him. He stomped off to the front of the car.

"We're almost there boys, come on let's prepare the offering!" He called, receiving a few sniggers.

Before Sherlock can register what's going on, someone pulled a sackcloth over his head.

—

He was pushed off the van, stumbling as he was suddenly walking again. His legs had grown sore and bruised from being curled up for so long, and his head felt like a bag of rocks as the small group of men lead him down the dingy corridor. His hands were tied behind him, with Whitney pushing him, and Robinson leading the way.

Dark, damp walls were on the either sides of him, perhaps a factory of some kind… obviously outside of London… water on the ground, abandoned water factory? No, only wet close to the doorways so area had just rained. The air smelled dusty so maybe a wood factory for furnitures. Abandoned for around… two years, judging by the strong smell of mold.

He sensed a metal door creak open before him and he was pushed in, hands still bind up behind him. Whitney pushed him down on a cold metal chair.

"Sit," he growled. He retied Sherlock's wrists so that he was stuck to the chair. Then, he pulled off the sackcloth.

Blinding white light meet him, replacing the empty darkness that once filled his vision. Sherlock blinked a few times, head spinning as his retinas struggled to adjust with the light. Slowly, the fuzzy imagine began to clear like the lenses on a camera.

"Master Moran will see you in a moment," Whitney said. And with that, he left the door, swinging the metal door shut with a clang.

 _Not the door that Moran will come in,_ Sherlock thought. He searched the room for any other openings. Sure enough, there was another door located to his right. Leaning back, he tested his restraints again. The rough cord cut into his wrists, providing his hands barely any movement.

What could Moran possibly want him? Conceivably for revenge, with the knife stab in the throat, the words Miss Me spelled out all over the bodies and a clip of Moriarty spread all around London. It was highly reasonable, to torture and kill him for outsmarting his master, however, Moran doesn't seem like the type. Moriarty doesn't usually have associates. He just uses them. So not revenge. That leaves money. Moran must be already mad enough when he found out that Whitney failed to kill him. Of course he fathomed that there was another better alternative.

Lust.

Wealth.

Gold.

Sebastian Moran, is holding Sherlock as a hostage, to receive money from the only man who has the value to pay for him.

Mycroft Holmes.

He was just trying to figure out how Moran is planning to do that until the door to his right opened with a click. There's no need to figure anything at all, actually. Because Moran is already going to tell him.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. I just realized how short my chapters are, so I trying to write as long as possible. :)**

 **One ring to rule them all…**

 **One death, to bring revenge…**

 **One code to win the war…**

 **One phone call, to save everyone…**

 **Six stones, to destroy the world…**

 **One Jedi, to bring them together…**

 **One tribute, to end the games…**

 **One spell, to defeat the Dark Lord…**

 **One fall, to owe to a man…**

 **One Pokemon, to be the best…**

 **One pirate, to drink all the rum…**

 **One captain, to lead a crew…**

 **One wardrobe, to bring the worlds together…**

 **One cure, that leads to death…**

 **And one freaking Tardis to ruin every single stupid thing.**

 **(answers: LoTR, The Revenant, Imitation Game, Matrix, Marvel, Star Wars, Hunger Games, Harry Potter, Sherlock, Pokemon, Pirates of the Caribbean, Star Trek, Narnia, Maze Runner, Doctor Who)**


	8. Chapter 8

The door opened. A man with brown-ginger hair walked in, wearing a light blue shirt and torn jeans. Definitely not what Sherlock had excepted. Wait…does that mean that he… deduced wrong? He shook his head, trying to clear the ringing noise in his ears. The side of his neck hurt again and he tried to remembered what happened there. What came up was a blank. A blank. Since when…

He tried going to his mind palace, but as he looked, everything was locked up. Crossed off by yellow police tapes, spreading from above all the way to below, crossing out the hallway, doors, every place he could set foot on. Do not cross. Why?

The man had already reached him, boots clanging on the stone floor at each agonizing step. Tall, 1.88 or so, tattoo of a snake on his left arm, knife in the other. Knife. Sherlock wished he had the ability to speak, to make a retort about this man's flashy and dramatic wear but of course, nothing came out. The man smiled at Sherlock's attempt to speak.

"Well, well, well, didn't except to ever see me huh?" He fingered the knife in his hand, turning it around and around so that the light reflects off it. In one smooth move, he had the knife right under Sherlock's throat. Sherlock tried to act like that didn't bother him. However he flinched. Just a teensy bit. Enough for Moran to see.

The grin on his face spread wide. "Oh, sorry," he retracted the knife, "forgot you were already stabbed in the throat." He flicked the knife up then caught it in midair.

"You know how much _damage_ you did to me over the past three years?" He started pacing around the room. "You, and your stupid mission to disable Moriarty's web," Moran snarled at the name _Moriarty._ "Bet you don't know, hm,?"

 _Of course I know you despise him,_ Sherlock thought, frustrated with the fact that he cannot speak. _For goodness sake, you despise him, it's obvious!_

There was a pause before Moran continued speaking. "I, despise him…" he said softly. Sherlock was about to roll his eyes but Moran wasn't done yet.

"I hate him," he growled, almost to himself. "I hate Moriarty, and yet you were all so scared of him, his _crazy little ways_ to strap bombs to people. I'm not going to be like him. A psychopath. No no no, I'm going to surpass him, Sherlock Holmes, and you'll be the first." He began to advance towards him.

 _"_ _You won't kill me, you only want me for money,"_ Sherlock said, hoping that Moran could read his lips. _"You won't kill me Moran, you're not like Moriarty,"_

But Moran only smiled, ignoring Sherlock's silent words. "What did you say, mute?" He cupped his hand around his ear as if he cannot hear him. "What was it that you just said, mute?"

A fist rammed into him, knocking his head all the way back. Fresh blood started to stream down his face and down to his chest, turning his white shirt crimson red. Tilting to the side, Sherlock spit a glob of blood down to the ground, clenching his teeth to ignore the bleeding wound inside. Moran stood a few meters away from him, examining his hand.

"You little bastard," he walked towards him and grabbed him by the collar. "Come on mute! Say something! Come on say something!"

At each sentence he kneeled him in the stomach, earning collective gasps at each kick.

"Come on, say something!" He pushed him to the ground, the steel chair clattering along beside him.

"Come on, mute! Say something!" Pulling the chair out, he delivered some more blows, stamping on the shrinking detective as he curled over to protect himself.

"Do you know how much hardship you caused me?"

Another kick.

"How much pain, you made me suffer?"

It's going to be a while till Moran runs out of his anger.

"I had to hide, in the gutters,"

So did I.

"I barely survived, while you, went to have your little cute reunion with your _pet_ ,"

The boot slammed against his head.

"What was his name again?"

 _John._

"John right?"

 _No, Doctor John Watson._

Moran buried his foot in his stomach. Sherlock doubled over and rolled around, knees brought up to his chest as a defense. Moran only laughed at this.

Yelling, screaming, aren't they all the same?

Crying, weeping, mourning. Sentiment. Why are people so sentimental? Another blow to the head. Sherlock could feel the thick liquid running through his hair, seeping down his neck, over his face, onto the floor.

"Stupid, idiot,"

"Speak,"

"Mute,"

Another blow, this one near his ear. It blast like a bass drum, then left a buzzing sound that he can never get rid of. He tried shaking his head, to get rid of it but it was always there. Why are there always ringing? Every single time. Ringing his head. Telling him to wake up. Wake up from what?

From this place? Is this place a nightmare? But everything felt so real. Explain that.

He was now crouching on the floor now, head hid behind his legs in effort to block most of the attacks. Though not all. A kick in the abdomen resulted more blood coming up his throat, coughing it onto the hard cement ground. He felt the grains of tiny rocks, embed in the ground, palm and backhand pressed onto the concrete floor. Hands still tied.

The attacks went on, round by round, till bruises covered every inch of his body, coloring his skin black and blue.

Suddenly, a clear resonant sound broke through the air, slicing the atmosphere, breaking the thin line of sanity that he was holding on. A call. Someone was calling him. Phone. The shadow of Moran shifted as he went to grab the ringing cell. Whitney must have left it on the table at the far end. Sherlock twisted around so that he can see Moran moving towards the table, fingers tracing the edge then crawling up towards the flashing phone.

"It's Lestrade," he said with a low chuckle. "They really do care about you, don't they? No wonder one of the snipers were on him," he grinned widely then put a finger to his lips. "Let's play a game of… silence," he whispered.

There was click, followed by a voice. Lestrade's voice.

"Sherlock, where in the world are you?" Lestrade's urgent voice came through. "We have been bloody looking for you in the past hour,"

 _Case._ Moran showed him what he was typing. _"Isn't that what you always say,"_ he mouthed, knowing Sherlock can read his lips.

"Dammit Sherlock, how about this case? And where are you?"

 _Boring, we already know who did it. There's no way to find out where they were._

"Fine, then. But where are you?"

Moran smiled at this. _"Let me give you a little hint,"_ he said silently. He began typing.

"Guildford? Why are you in Guildford?"

 _Case, I told you._

"Very well then. Um… do you need help or something like what kind of case is this? Who's leading?"

 _Fine Lestrade, don't need your help._

"Are you sure?"

 _Yes, I'm perfectly fine. Will be back in a few days._

Sherlock gritted his teeth at it and tested his restraints again. _"NO!"_ He wanted to scream but as usual, nothing came out. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the metal chair that he was tied to a few minutes ago. If he could just…

The chair slid a few feet across the ground, scraping the stone floor, iron legs clattering around. The voice in the phone stopped.

"I-what was that?"

Moran shot him a death glare then turned his attention back to the phone.

 _Nothing, accidentally kicked something._ He typed. A sigh was heard from the phone.

"Okay then, well take care of yourself, I hope you don't run into any trouble," he said.

No, Lestrade's going to pick up soon, there has to be a way…

The call ended with a click. The room fell back into silence, waters stilled. Sherlock gazed up at Moran, towering over him like a statue, frozen, playful smile hung there, mocking him.

 _You bastard,_ Sherlock snarled.

Moran's hands were on his throat in an instance.

"What did you just say?" He asked, face inches from his. "What, did you just say?"

His fingers were like rods of iron, clamped around his throat, knee pushing him down. Sherlock tried to pry his fingers away, but his hands were still pinned behind him. He tried twisting around, to break free of Moran's stone grip but nothing worked. It was like fighting air. You can never beat it.

Black spots began appearing before his eyes, his throat working to get some air beneath the pressure. Rocks and water crashed upon him, suffocating him, drowning him. Breathing never felt so hard. Then the seal was released. He reeled, taking in gulps of precious air, oxygen that he yearned for a few seconds ago. The picture cleared. Light green meet blue-gold.

"Can't kill you now," he whispered.

Sherlock learned not to speak that day. Even when he can make no sounds.

 **Hey guys, Izzy here. The Moran that I'm imagining here right now is currently played by Tom Hiddleston though I have no idea how the real Moran will look in season 4. I think it will be great if BC and TH work together in a movie or something.**

 **Thanks for Bunny's daughter, Icecat62, Lovely whim, N. , Saavikam69, Shirsim, avcngrs, bre13rose, britlynn, crexy, ivoryraindrops, paula. , and for favoriting!**

 **Doctor Strange is literally Inception in Marvel form. One of my favorite actors acting in one of my favorite movies in Marvel wowowowowowowowow.**


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